I told him, and he nodded.
“So you’re one of Lord Southbourne’s young men? Thought I knew your face, but couldn’t quite place you,” he responded. “Hope you won’t meet with the same fate as your predecessor. A sad affair, that; we got the news on Friday. Sounds like much the same sort of thing as this”—he jerked his head towards the ceiling—“except that Mr. Carson was an Englishman, who never ought to have mixed himself up with a lot like that.”
Again came that expressive jerk of the head, and his small bright eyes regarded me more shrewdly and observantly than ever.
“Let me give you a word of warning, Mr. Wynn; don’t you follow his example. Remember Russia’s not England—”
“I know. I’ve been there before. Besides, my chief warned me last night.”
“Lord Southbourne? Just so; he knows a thing or two. Well, now about Cassavetti—”
I was glad enough to get back to the point; it was he and not I who had strayed from it, for I was anxious to get rid of him.
I gave him just the information I had decided upon, and flattered myself that I did it with a candor that precluded even him from suspecting that I was keeping anything back. To my immense relief he refrained from any questioning, and at the end of my recital put up his pocket-book, and rose, holding out his hand.
“Well, you’ve given me very valuable assistance, Mr. Wynn. Queer old card, that Russian. We shouldn’t have much difficulty in tracing him, though you never can tell with these aliens. They’ve as many bolt holes as a rat. You say he’s the only suspicious looking visitor you’ve ever seen here?”
“The only one of any kind I’ve encountered who wanted Cassavetti. After all, I knew very little of him, and though we were such near neighbors, I saw him far more often about town than here.”